Harry Potter and the SORI
by Alphapolitan
Summary: Incomplete. Harry Potter and the Stone Of Radical Improbability! A very random Harry Potter parody.
1. The Perfectly Strange Tuesday

Harry Potter and the Stone Of Radical Improbability (SORI)

**Disclaimer: It is more probable to be struck by lightning and have won the lottery, than for J.K. Rowling to have written this story. (I DO NOT own any of these characters, or the story itself, I do not own Harry Potter.)**

**Author's Note: This is my very first piece of Fan Fiction. If you don't lose interest in the middle of this chapter and actually chuckle a few times, please be nice and review my work. Enjoy!**

Chapter 1: The Perfectly Strange Tuesday

It seemed like a perfectly normal Tuesday, but it wasn't. At #4 Privet Drive, Mr. Dursley woke up to get to work. This was perfectly normal. Mrs. Dursley was already downstairs, yammering into the phone as loud as she could, while feeding yogurt to her infant son, Dudley. This was perfectly normal. That is, for Mrs. Dursley and her son, not for the yogurt, which had been sitting in the refrigerator for some time. As Mr. Dursley pulled out of his driveway and turned left, he did not notice the penguin, sitting underneath a sign in front of his house, on which was written in big, bold, letters: #4 Privet Drive. The big bold letters were written on the sign, not on the house, or on the penguin, and this, of course, was perfectly normal. Never mind the penguin for now.

Anyway, the first thing that Mr. Dursley _did_ notice, which _wasn't_ perfectly normal, was that the traffic jam he was now standing in was caused by people clad in oddly colored cloaks who were dashing across the street. "What the hell," Mr. Dursley thought to himself. Curiously enough, "What the hell," is exactly what Mr. Dursley would find himself saying if he knew that hundreds of flamingoes were currently swooping in different directions, high above the traffic. Anyway, Mr. Dursley forgot all about the oddly-colored cloaks once he arrived at work. He sat in the chair at his desk and called numerous people on the phone and told them what he thought of them, and vice-versa.

When it was time for his lunch break, Mr. Dursley left his office and bought himself a bagel in a fancy café. But there was something wrong with it. Not with Mr. Dursley, or the fancy café, but the bagel. It was made in China, like all things are, it was small, smooth and shiny, round, and had a hole in the middle, but it was covered with sesame seeds! Mr. Dursley was allergic to sesame seeds, and he didn't know this crucial fact. So he went ahead and ate the bloody bagel. Allergic reactions vary greatly from substance to substance, and person to person. So let's look at the equation: Mr. Dursley + sesame seeds equals X. By counting the number of letters in the first phrase (Mr. Dursley), and in the second (sesame seeds), subtracting the smaller from the greater, squaring this number, multiplying it by 2005 to the negative fifth power, writing it on a little piece of paper, and mailing it to Madagascar, we finally arrive to the deeper meaning of X in this equation. X equals Paranoia, meaning, when Mr. Dursley eats sesame seeds, he gets very paranoid.

So here was Mr. Dursley, walking down the street, eating his bagel covered with sesame seeds, when suddenly he got very paranoid. He stopped. Suddenly. Not getting paranoid, but he stopped walking and eating his bagel covered with sesame seeds. He looked out of the corners of his eyes. A red car was pulling up near the sidewalk right next to him. Mr. Dursley whimpered and turned around. Quickly. A blond woman, walking toward him, was taking something out of her purse. Slowly. Mr. Dursley began hyperventilating and whirled his head. In the café window, there was a scrumptious cake that had a hidden camera in its cherry. It was watching him. Creepily. Mr. Dursley ran for it. Dashing through the streets, running pell-mell down the road, he tripped on a rock, five yards away from weird people in cloaks. Mr. Dursley was unharmed by the accident, but the bagel that he was still holding had lost a few sesame seeds. He tossed the bagel into the rubbish bin, and then glared at the weird people in cloaks. Suspiciously.

The weird people in oddly colored cloaks were huddled together, whispering, possibly about him. Mr. Dursley took a small step toward them. The weird people in oddly colored cloaks didn't notice. Mr. Dursley took another small step toward them. The weird people in oddly colored cloaks didn't notice, again. Mr. Dursley dropped on all fours and crawled closer to them. He then strained his ears to hear what they were talking about. "…..the Potters…." "…..their son Harry…." "….you-know-who…" Mr. Dursley froze still in shock. His wife Petunia insisted that they pretend that she didn't have a sister, who was a-… Mr. Dursley shuddered. His wife's sister married with someone called Potter and had a son who, Mr. Dursley strained his memory, seemed to have been called Harry. Mr. Dursley got up quickly and ran back to his office. He yelled at his secretary to shut up even though she didn't say anything and slammed the door.

He picked up his telephone and started dialing his home phone number, and then suddenly, he changed his mind. He thought to himself, _there must be a lot of people named Potter. It's probably a common name. I'm not even sure that their son's name was Harry. It might have been Harvey or Harold. Or maybe Haricoverts, who knows?_ He reassured himself. He was just being paranoid. Mr. Dursley passed the remainder of his afternoon ordinarily, whatever ordinary might be, without noticing any of the flamingoes that were flying past his office window every few minutes. Indeed, he didn't notice anything strange until he was pulling into his driveway. There was a penguin, sitting underneath a sign in front of his house, on which was written in big, bold, letters: #4 Privet Drive. Mr. Dursley stopped the car and stared at it, with his mouth wide open. The penguin stared back in a cool manner. Mr. Dursley's eyes began to water, and then he blinked. The penguin also blinked back, in a cool manner. Mr. Dursley glared at the penguin as if he was daring it to continue existing. The penguin dared to continue to exist and blinked again.

Mr. Dursley was so perplexed by the sudden apparition of a penguin for no earthly reason that his brain decided to ignore it, deeming it someone else's problem. Mr. Dursley drove the car into his driveway, got out, went up to his front door, and rang the door bell, completely ignoring the penguin that was sitting next to him, still blinking at him. Mrs. Dursley opened the door and let him in. "How was your day at work, dear?" she cooed. Mr. Dursley decided not to tell her about the whispers that he had heard. "It was fine," he said. He dropped himself into the couch in his living room and groaned. It had been a long day. He turned on the TV. "Bird-watchers have reported hundreds of flamingo sightings all over Britain. Zoologists are clueless as to how they migrated from Florida. Sometimes we do have the odd flamingo or two that migrates for some unknown reason." The reporter grinned sheepishly. "Very strange. And now for the weather forecast, Paul, are we having any flamingo showers in the near future?" "Well, I don't know about that, Tom, but people have been calling from Kent and Yorkshire about some very strange weather. I promised them a light shower yesterday, but instead they had a shower of shooting stars! Probably people setting off fireworks, Bonfire Night isn't until next week folks! But I can promise you a wet night tonight-"

Mr. Dursley stared at the TV in horror. Showers of shooting stars? Flocks of flamingoes? Weird people in oddly colored cloaks dashing across the streets? Whispering about the Potters and their son Harry? Strange things were happening today. He got up off the sofa and went to his wife, who was in the kitchen. "Er, Petunia, dear?" he asked tentatively. "Yes?" she said curiously. "Is something wrong?" "No, no, nothing," he said, "Its just that, um, have you heard from your, er, sister lately?" Mrs. Dursley was shocked. "No. Why?" she demanded angrily. "Well, er, I dunno, strange things happened today, um, flamingoes everywhere, uh, shooting stars, and odd people in cloaks; I thought it had something to do with, um, _her _crowd, "he said nervously. Mrs. Dursley stared at him for a few seconds. "Nah, you're just being paranoid," she said scornfully. Mr. Dursley sighed resignedly. At least he had tried. He went to bed and tried to sleep, but the day's events kept turning over in his mind. _What if all the strange things that happened today have something to do with us?_ Mr. Dursley shuddered, but then reassured himself. _Petunia's right; I'm just being paranoid. _How very wrong he was.

**So… Did you like it? Should I keep on writing? Was it funny at all? Please, please, please review! Even if you didn't like it, help me get better!**

**Alphapolitan**


	2. Peculiar Things Always Happen At Night

Harry Potter and the Stone Of Radical Improbability (SORI)

**Disclaimer: If we have acknowledged the fact that J.K. Rowling did not write the first chapter, why on earth would she suddenly be inspired to write this one?**

**Author's Note: My deepest apologies to those who have been waiting anxiously! I was very busy/lazy! I recommend rereading Chapter 1 to refresh your memory. Forgive me for the wait and enjoy the lengthier, long-awaited sequel!**

Chapter 2: Peculiar Things Always Happen At Night

It was now very late at night; the whole street was dark except for the occasional street lamp. And the penguin was still there. The penguin, sitting underneath a sign in front of the house, on which was written in big, bold, letters: #4 Privet Drive. Yes, that penguin; know any other? The penguin was getting very impatient. It had been sitting in front of the house, on the cold, hard ground since early morning, and it was beginning to get very annoyed. It was _not_ a happy penguin. Actually, it wasn't a penguin either, but we will get to that soon enough.

It was watching the empty street, waiting for something to happen. And so, a few minutes went by, and then, something did happen. Something very strange. The wind suddenly picked up, and whirled through the trees, making all of the leaves rustle. But that was just a coincidence. A man had suddenly appeared in the middle of the street. He wore dark purple robes, spectacles on his nose, and he had a long white beard that reached his belt. His name was Dumbledore. The penguin, however, was so startled by the man's sudden appearance that it jumped up and made a noise like a squeaky toy for dogs. The man whirled around and glared at the penguin. Suspiciously.

"Professor McGonagall I presume?" he asked the penguin. The penguin squeaked again. Rather than squeak back three times and spin around, Dumbledore replied, "I would take that as a yes." The penguin suddenly morphed into a middle-aged woman. The former penguin wore emerald green robes, a strict expression on her face, and spectacles on her nose, but she did not have a long white beard since belts weren't currently fashionable for women, or female penguins for that matter. "No", she said, "Frodo Baggins of the Shire." Dumbledore blinked in confusion and didn't notice the flamingo flying down the street, behind McGonagall.

Professor McGonagall began laughing hysterically. Dumbledore looked at her, slightly bemused, and then opened his mouth, as if to offer her a lemon drop, but a sudden gust of wind conveniently blew a leaf into his mouth. Dumbledore spluttered and tried to swallow the leaf, but it lodged in his throat. He coughed loudly and tears welled in his eyes. McGonagall straightened up and laughed, gasping for air, as tears streamed down her face. "Hah! Frodo Baggins!" Then she noticed that he was crying.

"There, there." She stepped closer to him and patted him on the back. He began coughing loudly and grabbed his throat. He tried to say something, but it was hopelessly garbled by the leaf. She raised her eyebrows and asked, "What's wrong? Beef's in your moat?" Dumbledore shook his head frantically, reached into his pocket for his wand, but there was only a silver cigarette lighter inside. Dumbledore gargled at McGonagall. She tried again. "You had tea with your stoat?" Dumbledore almost screamed in frustration. He pointed to a tree then to his throat. "Oh my! You have a leaf in your throat! Are you ok?"

As Dumbledore shook his head, gasping for air, McGonagall despaired, "But I don't know how to do the Heimlich Maneuver!" Dumbledore groaned. McGonagall clapped a hand to her forehead. "Silly old me! I forgot I'm a witch!" She flicked her wand and a large white book appeared in her other hand, titled: _How to Do the Heimlich Maneuver without Causing Permanent Damage to Yourself or the Victim_. She quickly skimmed through it and then leaped into action. McGonagall wrapped her arms around Dumbledore's waist, made a fist with one hand and grabbed it with her other hand. She pressed her hands into his upper abdomen and quickly thrust upward several times. Another flamingo, flying by, was so distracted by this scene that it promptly crashed into a conveniently placed tree. Finally, the leaf flew out of Dumbledore's mouth.

Dumbledore took in several deep breaths. "Have you recovered?" asked McGonagall, "It says that, if not, I should proceed with CPR." "No, no I'm fine," Dumbledore said quickly, before McGonagall could magic a CPR handbook out of thin air, "Why didn't you just clear my throat with your wand?" "Well, excuse me, for saving your life," she snapped, back to wearing a strict expression. Dumbledore sighed helplessly. "Would you like a lemon-" he asked her. "No, I would _not_ like a lemon drop," McGonagall told him angrily. "I did not sit on the cold, hard ground, since early morning, disguised as a penguin so that you could offer me _lemon drops_, you _fool_!" she yelled, going mad with rage and waving her wand wildly. Dumbledore took a few steps backward, almost walking into a street lamp. At #4 Privet Drive, Mr. Dursley turned over in his bed, having nightmares about penguins. "No, no, it wasn't me. I didn't eat that bagel," he mumbled frantically.

She took several deep breaths and continued in a calmer voice. "I wanted to know if you-know-who is gone. And Lily and James…are they…dead?" Dumbledore nodded sadly. "Oh Dumbledore, I just…don't want to believe it. After murdering so many people like Lily and James, how could one year-old Harry simply stop Him?" "We may never know," Dumbledore replied ominously, glad the old bag was no longer screaming at him. "So, what are you going to about Harry?" asked McGonagall curiously. "Well, er, Hagrid's bringing him to #4 Privet Drive," replied Dumbledore, nervously. "_What_! Are you out of your blooming _mind_?" she shrieked. "You trust _him_ to get Harry while _I_ have to do….everything I said a moment ago just to find out about the current situation?" "I would trust Hagrid with my life," Dumbledore replied defiantly.

McGonagall humphed loudly. Suddenly, a motorcycle carrying a giant man in a large, furry coat fell out of the sky and landed right on top of Dumbledore. The giant smiled at McGonagall and greeted her. "Hiya Professor McGonagall." He looked around. "Where's Dumbledore?" McGonagall pointed underneath the motorcycle, with a trembling finger, "Hagrid, he's under there!" Hagrid jumped off the motorcycle, panicking and shouted, "Under where?" Dumbledore came out of nowhere. "Ha! You said underwear!" McGonagall and Hagrid stared and stuttered, "But…how?" Dumbledore smiled mysteriously and replied, "I'll tell you later." Turning to Hagrid, he asked him, "Where'd you get that motorcycle anyway?" Hagrid turned red and said, "Well, you know…I found it in me pocket." "By the way, where's Harry Potter?" Dumbledore continued. "Harry Potter? Oh, _that_ Harry Potter! Where _is_ he, anyway?" Dumbledore began to fear for Harry's life.

Hagrid turned even redder. "Oh _yeah_! I picked him up, and then I…put him in my pocket…" and began rummaging through his oversized pockets inside his large furry coat. He took out various items including a red handkerchief tied to a yellow handkerchief tied to a blue handkerchief, a fire hydrant, a pet rock, a pair of ruby slippers, a small remote control, a roll of toilet paper, a library book titled _Proceeding With CPR_, a vacuum cleaner, a golden ring on a silver chain, a bunch of strange keys on a ring, and an unidentified flying object. "Aha!" Hagrid exclaimed, and took out a baby dead monkey. Gasp.

A few things happened simultaneously. McGonagall took a step backward, bumping into and triggering the burglar alarm of Hagrid's motorcycle. Dumbledore screamed like a little girl, cracking the window of a nearby house, and a flamingo dropped dead from the sky. Hagrid realized what he was holding and threw it over his shoulder with a yell. After a few ages, Dumbledore stopped screaming, and Hagrid pointed the remote control at his motorcycle, which, instead of shutting up, rose into the air and disappeared. "Damn!" swore Hagrid angrily. McGonagall screeched, "Shh! You'll wake the freaking muggles, you big twit!" Lights began turning on in several houses. Dumbledore shouted at both of them to shut up. He glared at Hagrid, who took out a small bundle of sheets holding the baby and handed it to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore dropped the baby gently underneath a sign in front of the house, on which you know well what was written, in big, bold letters. He then took out an envelope and covered the baby's ugly forehead with it. He turned to his two companions and waved his wand, disappearing along with McGonagall, protesting of leaving baby Potter at #4 Privet Drive, and crying Hagrid, with the contents of his pockets, in a bright flash of light. Underneath the envelope, the baby's forehead was marked with a large, glowing X.

**And that concludes SORI chapter 2! I hope it was funny, and that you laughed, chuckled, and/or snickered while reading this chapter.**

**Here are the answers to the eight reviews I received before the publication of this chapter:**

**deppangel818: I'm sorry I kept promising and never updating!**

**CHICKENS of DOOM: Sorry I didn't update for such a long time! Did you pass your last math test using my Paranoia Formula?**

**Silver Mayflower: Yes, I did read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and I liked it so much that I decided to mimic Douglas Adams's unique style of writing!**

**Dragon of the lost world: Happy you liked it!**

**Caitlin-and-Emily: Of course! Go randomness!**

**FireAngel375: Here's the "more" you've been waiting for! (That rhymes!)**

**choochootrainofmonkeys: Love the name! I _have_ written more! Keep commanding me to write more, and I just might listen!**

**Ok! That's pretty much it for this chapter, I will post the next chapter in at _most_ a month, at _least_ a week. Please review and tell me which chapter you liked better! See you then!**

**Alphapolitan**


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